Sherlock's Christmas Carol
by Through-the-Smoke
Summary: Sherlock really hates christmas. A Sherlockian twist on A Christmas Carol


**A/N:** This incarnation of Sherlock belongs to the BBC. A Christmas Carol belongs to Charles Dickens. Unbetad.

* * *

><p>John loved Christmas.<p>

It was something Sherlock just couldn't understand. It was a waste of both time and money, and served no purpose in day to day life. There was just no excuse for a grown man in his thirties to be decorating his flat with tinsel (messy - it always seemed to _moult_ everywhere) fairy lights (pointless - they were too dim to serve any real purpose) and a Christmas tree (tacky).

Sherlock glared at the offending tree in the corner of the room from his vantage point on the sofa. It was a perfectly ugly thing - a slightly lopsided plastic affair (in a shockingly unrealistic shade of green) decorated with brightly coloured baubles, tinsel and lights (these in _addition _to the ones already strung up around the flat!) and with a slightly squashed looking star perched on the top, which had obviously been broken and glued back together at least twice in it's life.

Sherlock just didn't have time for Christmas. After all, what was the point? You bought someone a present, they bought one for you…but if you're both buying things, why not just buy _yourself_ something you actually want, rather than entrusting someone else to do it for you when they might buy the wrong thing? And then there were the _adverts_. And the _food_. And the expectation that you had to _see people_. It was intolerable.

He looked round when John came in, laden down with carrier bags. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold and he looked exhausted.

"I swear to God," John began, dumping the bags down and heading into the kitchen to put the kettle on, "I am never leaving my Christmas shopping til the last minute ever again. Christmas Eve shopping is the _worst_."

"Hmm."

"I managed to get your Christmas present."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "John, I have told you before that I have no interest in celebrating Christmas. I therefore have no interest in receiving gifts. Nor do I have any interest in giving them. As I have not got you anything, you've wasted your money and should return whatever useless item you've bought for me in a moment of panic-buying driven idiocy."

John leant against the doorframe, arms folded. "I didn't buy you a present because I expect one in return; I bought it because I think you'll like it. I _enjoy_ buying presents for other people, it's half the fun. And insulting me isn't going to change that." he paused. "What are you doing tomorrow anyway?"

"Same as I do every day when there's not a case on. I'll go to Barts. It should be nicely empty, perfect for a couple of experiments I've been meaning to do."

"Are you not seeing Mycroft?" John asked, frowning. Sherlock scoffed.

"I make a point of never seeing my brother when I can help it. Why would that change just because of some outdated festival which doesn't mean anything?"

John ran a hand through his hair. "Well…if you want you could come with me…y'know, to Harry's thing. If you want. It starts fairly early, goes on all day - to be honest I'd be glad of the company."

"No. I don't even know why _you're_ going when you can't stand her."

"She's _family_." John said indignantly. Sherlock snorted.

"She's not _my_ family. You can do what you like, but I'm staying here."

John shrugged. "Suit yourself." he sounded casual, but when he turned back into the kitchen Sherlock could see his shoulders were tense. He sighed. Well, if John wanted to be angry, fine. It was his own fault for treating Christmas like it actually meant something.

John ended up giving him the silent treatment for the rest of the evening, which actually bothered Sherlock more than he thought it would. The worst part was he couldn't work out _why_ it was bothering him. They'd spent many evenings sat in the same room together silently, doing their own thing. Why should it make a difference that John was deliberately not talking to him? But it did. He even tried to initiate conversation a couple of times, but got nothing more than monosyllabic answers and the occasional Look. When John finally went upstairs with a muttered "g'night" Sherlock was almost tempted to follow him. In the end he didn't - he had a feeling barging into John's bedroom uninvited was one of those 'not good' things - and instead flicked the TV on, turning it up a bit louder than was strictly necessary out of spite. It was John's fault he felt like this, after all. If he'd just admitted that Sherlock was right about Christmas all this unpleasantness could have been avoided. And they could have spent a perfectly pleasant December 25th in Baker Street…no-one else…just the two of them…

"Well doesn't that sound _delightful_?" Came a voice from the far corner of the room. Sherlock leapt out of his chair and turned, scanning for the intruder. When he saw him, his heart almost stopped.

"You!"

"Hello, darling." Moriarty grinned, stepping out from the shadows. He grinned. "Did you miss me?"

"You…" Sherlock glanced towards the staircase, wondering how quickly John would come down if he shouted (_but that would put John in danger…_) or if he'd even have his gun already loaded (_stupid, why did he never leave it downstairs? Logically if someone were to break in they'd get to Sherlock before they got to him…_) or…Through his haze of panic, Sherlock's brain finally caught up with what was happening. He blinked, his heart rate slowly returning to normal.

"You can't be here."

"Cant I?" Moriarty frowned. "That's not very friendly. Why not?"

Sherlock folded his arms, forcing himself to relax. "For a start, there is no conceivable way you could have gotten in here completely undetected. That and the obvious fact that you're dead. I put a bullet in your brain myself three months ago."

Moriarty began slowly clapping, a shark-like grin on his face. "Oh _very_ good."

"So I'm dreaming."

"You're not even asleep." he argued.

Sherlock shrugged. "You're a hallucination then. Too much rich food on an empty stomach. Whatever, not like I've never hallucinated before. Either way - not really here and _not _worth my attention."

"Oh, I think you'll find I am. On both counts. Yes, you killed me. But that didn't end me."

"What does that mean?"

"Oh, Sherlock. Death isn't the end you and I expected. It's only the beginning."

"Of what?" Sherlock asked curiously, a chill running down his spine. He knew this was only his subconscious trying to tell him something, but he also knew the subconscious could see things the conscious mind couldn't. It didn't do to ignore it.

Moriarty's eyes gleamed. "You don't want to know."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Ok then. Well! Fascinating though this has been…"

"Sherlock!" Moriarty stepped forwards, moving to block his path into the bedroom. "I'm here to warn you."

"About what?"

"_After_." Moriarty shook his head. "There are a lot of people waiting for you here. And they don't all hold you in the same cuddly affectionate regard that I do." he licked his lips. "It's too late for me. But you, you can change your ways, so you don't end up like me."

Sherlock sneered. "Seriously? You're here to warn me about Hell?" he laughed. "I stopped believing in that a long time ago."

"It's not Hell. Not in the way you mean, anyway."

"Besides. I help people. I do _good_."

"You also kill people."

"Bad people."

"Funny, I don't remember that from Sunday school - 'thou shalt not kill unless they're _bad people_'." he smirked. "And anyway. What about lying? That's considered a sin you know."

"I don't lie unless I have to."

"Really? Wasn't it only yesterday you were telling John I'd been spotted in Marrakech?"

Sherlock glanced at the staircase. "John doesn't need to know what I did for…what I did."

"And why is that?"

"It's none of his concern."

Moriarty blinked slowly, then made a big show of checking an imaginary watch. "Well, my time is up. I've warned you to change, not my fault if you won't listen." he paused, clicking his tongue against his teeth. "But in the interest of fair play, I suppose I should try a bit harder. You'll be visited by a further three…'hallucinations'."

"Oh good. Because that hasn't already gotten old."

"Have fun, darling." Moriarty blew him a kiss. "I very much doubt it'll do you any good, but I've done my part. You won't see me again."

"We can hope." Sherlock said dryly.

"I really do. You shouldn't be…" For a second, Moriarty's expression slipped, a spasm of pure fear passing over his face. It was gone before Sherlock could really register it, replaced by his trademark leer. "Well. Never mind that. Three of them, remember. First one will be here at 1:00am."

"I'd rather not."

"You have to listen to them!" Moriarty's eyes seemed to burn. "_Listen_. It's your only hope." He grinned again, and his teeth looked impossibly sharp. "Or I'll see you in Hell."

Suddenly he sprang forwards, mouth open impossibly wide as if to swallow him. Sherlock let out an involuntary cry and fell back into the chair, eyes screwed shut, one arm raised to defend himself. He was startled by sudden loud voices and his eyes sprang open again. He was alone. The voices were just on the television, which he now belatedly realised had turned off the second Moriarty had appeared.

"Or, more likely," he muttered to himself, grabbing the remote and switching it off, "I fell asleep in the chair and dreamt the whole thing." He shook his head angrily and stalked off to his bedroom. Obviously he was more tired than he'd realised.

Sherlock tried to put the whole encounter out of his mind as he got ready for bed, but as much as he hated to admit it, he was shaken. He was jumping at shadows, listening intently for the sound of footsteps…he had to fight down the urge to go and make sure John was alright.

"Just a dream." he reminded himself. He'd shot Moriarty clean between the eyes, relished the 'look of surprise' on his face (although, it hadn't so much been surprise. More acceptance and mocking, tinged with fear. Much less satisfying than he'd imagined). It was John's fault, picking away at Sherlock and lowering his defences. It was all John's fault. Maybe it would be good for him to have John out of the way for a day. Give him space to _think_.

He turned off the light and climbed under the duvet, peering at his bedside clock. 12:45. Sherlock felt a small pang of anxiety, then quickly squashed it.

"Stop being an idiot." he muttered to himself. "Go to sleep."

And, as was always his way, a few seconds later he was dead to the world.

Sherlock awoke slowly, keeping his eyes shut. He could see light through his closed eyelids, and smirked to himself. Daylight. Obviously. He wondered if John had left for Harry's yet, or if there'd be time to ask for an apology (or to make one - he'd learnt quickly that sometimes the only way to make John soften towards him was to pretend to have been in the wrong). The second he opened his eyes, however, the light disappeared. Sherlock blinked stupidly into the darkness, then turned to squint at his bedside clock.

01:00.

Immediately, Sherlock became aware of someone else in the room with him. Quick as a flash, he turned on his bedside lamp and reached for the knife he always kept hidden beside his bed. He froze when he saw exactly who it was, then relaxed back into the bed with an impatient sigh.

"Mycroft."

"Hello, Sherlock." Mycroft smiled, pleasantly.

"What the hell are you doing here? And how did you get in?"

"I just…did. I believe you were expecting me."

"Why would I be…hold on. Was that little stunt earlier you?" Sherlock sat up, furiously. "Whatever game you're playing, Mycroft-"

"Oh, it's no game, I assure you. And I played no part in whatever happened earlier. I'm just here to help you." he paused. "The first of three, I believe."

Sherlock frowned, considering. Now that he thought about it, there was no reason for Mycroft to turn up at him flat in the middle of the night without calling first. "I was expecting someone else dead." he said at last. "This is much less interesting." He tilted his head. "Or _are_ you dead? Have you finally been assassinated? Because that really _would_ make this a wonderful Christmas."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Hilarious, dear brother. Sorry to disappoint but I am still very much alive and kicking."

"Hmm. Pity."

Mycroft chuckled. "Indeed. Well, shall we go?"

"Hold on, go where? I thought the whole point of this little dream was to talk about my failings?"

"Well, you've always responded better to things you can see."

"I'm not getting up, so just say your piece and then kindly piss off."

Mycroft sighed theatrically. "_Fine_. Have it your way. No-one can say I didn't try." he held out his hand. Sherlock glared at it for a full five seconds before glancing up at Mycroft's face, incredulous.

"Seriously?"

Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed, then took his brother's hand to shake it figuring this would be the quickest way to get the insufferable bastard out of his head. God, he really _hated_ his subconscious. The second their hands touched, they were surrounded by a blinding white light. When it cleared, they were no longer in Sherlock's room, but instead standing next to a small forest. The ground and tree tops were blanketed with snow. Sherlock swore.

"What the hell?"

"I told you. I'm showing you something." Mycroft smiled.

"I'm in my bloody pants!"

"Are you cold?" Mycroft asked mildly. Sherlock gestured unselfconsciously at his near-naked body.

"Not the point! In my _pants_, Mycroft."

"Relax. No-one will see you."

"I'm not going anywhere like this." Sherlock folded his arms. "It's my dream; I should get to decide what I wear."

Mycroft's bland expression faltered for a split second, then he sighed. "Very well." he muttered, producing a dressing gown. Sherlock couldn't tell where it had come from, but he slipped it on gratefully.

"Thank you. Now let's get this over with."

"By all means. Do you know where we are?"

"No idea."

"Perhaps he might give you a clue?" Mycroft pointed towards a small figure, darting across the snowy field as fast as his little legs could carry him. He was laughing gleefully, several snowballs clutched in his skinny arms. Sherlock blinked.

"Why on earth would a child be able to-" he broke off, eyes narrowing. Suddenly, he set off at a run in the direction the child had gone. He flew around the side of the forest and stopped dead, staring. The child was running towards a large house. Sherlock looked over his shoulder to find Mycroft stood next to him.

"This is the Sussex house." he said hesitantly. Mycroft nodded.

"Yes."

"And that child…that was me?"

"Yes."

Sherlock paused. "Right. I…"

"It's December 24th, 1984." Mycroft informed him. He looked at Sherlock expectantly; like that information should mean something. Sherlock scowled. He hated not understanding anything.

"So I'm five. So what?"

Mycroft sighed. "Let's go inside, shall we?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and followed his brother into the house. "I'm assuming no-one can see us?"

"Correct. We can't interact with them or our surroundings in any way."

"Shame." Sherlock said smirking, eyeing the pile of snowballs his younger self had unceremoniously dumped in the entrance hall. They were already melting slightly. Mycroft followed his gaze and shot him a withering look.

"Do I really need to point out that you're not _actually_ five years old anymore?" he sighed. "Never mind. Follow me."

Sherlock did. Together, they walked down the increasingly familiar corridors until they reached a large set of ornate doors. Mycroft cast a glance over his shoulder, then stepped through the solid wood. Shrugging, Sherlock followed suit. On the other side of the doors was the house's enormous library. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace and a large, tastefully decorated, perfectly shaped tree stood to one side. Two children sat on the rug in front of the fire. One, Sherlock recognised as himself. And the other-

"God, you were even fat as a child." Sherlock sniped, watching a ten year old Mycroft trying to read a book while little Sherlock tried to take it from him. Mycroft chuckled.

"That insult is becoming old, dear brother, its sting wore off long ago. You really need to think up new material - and besides, it's not hard to miss that you only ever insult my weight when I'm getting to you."

"Hmph." Sherlock glared, well aware that Mycroft was right. He'd never really thought about it before, but jibes about Mycroft's weight had always hurt him the most. And so they were the ones pulled out whenever he wanted Mycroft to leave him alone. "What are we even doing here anyway?"

"Shh. Just observe. You're _good_ at that."

Frowning, Sherlock looked back at the two children on the rug. They continued to bicker good naturedly, both of them darting excited looks towards the clock every couple of minutes. At 8:00pm precisely, the library doors opened and mummy walked in. Little Sherlock bounded off the rug and flung himself into her arms.

"Hello my poppet!" she smiled, running a hand through his curls. "Are you ready for bed?"

"Yes!" He grinned up at her.

"Come on then." she took his hand and led him to a cupboard next to the Christmas tree. Taking a small silver key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and pulled out two enormous knitted objects, one of which she handed to her youngest son. He unfurled it, grinning, and Sherlock suddenly realised what it was. His Christmas stocking, he'd forgotten how big they'd been. Indeed, the young boy in front of him couldn't even carry it without it trailing on the floor.

"Where's the sherry and mince pie?" little Sherlock asked. Mummy smiled.

"In the kitchen. I'll fetch it for you."

"And a carrot!" Sherlock called after her, "Or the reindeer will get hungry!"

Within a minute Mummy was back, handing a glass and a small plate to her youngest son.

"Here we go then. Don't spill it! Mycroft, give him a hand, will you?"

"He's got it." the young Mycroft said, giving her a disdainful look. The older version of Mycroft standing next to him chuckled. Sure enough, little Sherlock managed to successfully place the two items next to the tree and turned back to Mummy, grinning happily.

"Come on then!" Mummy trilled. "Off to sleep or Father Christmas wont come!"

Little Sherlock's eyes widened. "Goodnight, Mycroft!" he called, practically dragging Mummy from the room in his haste to go to bed.

Sherlock looked at the young Mycroft, now happily curled up and absorbed in his book, before turning to look at his older sibling.

"Much as I appreciate a pointless trip down memory lane, can we leave now?"

"Not yet. Come with me."

Mycroft held out his hand again. Sherlock stared at it.

"Where are we going now?"

"Not far. About five hours from now."

"Because…?"

Mycroft grabbed at Sherlock's hand, muttering something to himself that Sherlock couldn't quite catch. Once again Sherlock was almost blinded by a flash of bright light, and when it had faded he found himself in exactly the same spot as before. Only now the fire had burnt down to nothing and the lights on the tree had been switched off. The room was bathed in darkness and the whole thing felt oddly oppressive. He glanced questioningly at Mycroft who held up a hand to silence him.

"Wait." he said.

"For what?"

"That."

As he said it, the large wooden door opened silently, allowing light from the hallway to trickle in. Sherlock watched as his mummy and father began removing gifts from several of the locked cupboards, placing the larger ones under the tree and smaller ones into the two stockings his father had obviously retrieved from his and Mycroft's rooms. They were laughing and joking together, happier than Sherlock could ever remember seeing them. It was a normal family Christmassy thing to do, and he felt like he could watch the two of them forever.

A movement from the doorway caught his eye and he turned his head, to catch his younger self watching the presents being distributed with disbelieving wide eyes. He looked devastated. And suddenly Sherlock _remembered_. He remembered waking up and hearing noises downstairs, being beside himself with excitement that it might be Father Christmas. He'd got out of bed and padded down to the library, hoping to catch a glimpse of the great man. When he'd opened the door to see Mummy and Father doing Father Christmas's job, he'd been confused for all of three seconds before the truth hit him. He looked at Mycroft, whose eyes were glued to the small child.

"The day you found out Father Christmas wasn't real." Mycroft sounded sad.

"It was the first time they ever lied to me." Sherlock said softly, looking back at his parents. "I'd never felt so betrayed."

"Every child feels that to some extent. You took it harder than most. I'm not sure you ever really forgave them for their deceit." he looked at Sherlock. "Or me."

"That's ridiculous. I was five. I was over it within a week."

"Over the lie, yes. But you never got over being lied _to_." Mycroft held out his hand. "Watch."

Sherlock took it. The last thing he saw before the blinding light forced him to close his eyes was his mother's face, lit up with laughter.

When he opened his eyes again, they were still in the library. A slightly older looking Mycroft sat engrossed in a large, leather-bound book while a small Sherlock sat gazing at the Christmas tree.

"December 24th, 1985." Mycroft told him. Sherlock nodded absently, looking back at the two children. There was none of the excitement from the year before, none of the anticipation. The clock chimed 8:00 and Mummy came walking into the library, as she had the year before.

"Sherlock, my love!" She beamed. Little Sherlock grinned in response, leaping up to give her a hug. "Are you ready for bed?"

"Yes."

"Come on, then. Let's get your stocking."

"Why?"

Mummy looked at him, surprised. "I'm sorry?"

"Why, Mummy? You and Father are just going to take it away again to fill with presents, why bother taking it to my room?" he paused. "Why do I need a stocking? Can't you just leave the presents down here?"

Mummy gaped at him. "Well…its part of the fun, darling. Even though you know it's not really Father Christmas leaving you presents, it's nice to pretend. Even grown ups do it."

"But why? It's silly. Why would you pretend something that's not real is real?" he sounded genuinely curious.

"It's like the theatre." Mycroft piped up from his chair. Sherlock and Mummy both looked at him. "You know that it's actors on a stage, don't you? But you pretend it's real, because else it wouldn't be as enjoyable."

"So Christmas is like a play?"

"Sort of."

"Oh." little Sherlock seemed to be considering this. "I still think it's silly. But I think I will still use my stocking please."

"Good." Mummy smiled.

"But I'll leave it down here." he smiled, pleased with himself. "Goodnight Mycroft. Goodnight, Mummy." with that, he trotted from the room. He felt Mycroft lay a hand on his shoulder, and then it was like watching his childhood on fast-forward. He saw years of Christmases pass, each one slightly less festive for his younger self than the last. Eventually, he found himself watching his teenage self read a textbook. The room wasn't decorated at all.

"Why isn't it Christmas?" Sherlock said. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"It is. This is December 24th, 1992. With Mummy gone and me at university, Father sent you here by yourself while he worked. If I remember correctly, you told the staff not to bother decorating, because it was messy and expensive and no-one really cared anyway."

"I don't remember that."

"I imagine you deleted it."

Sherlock stared at him younger self. "But I was so young. Just a child."

"Yes."

"Hmm. I thought I was older than that when I became sensible."

Mycroft looked at him, eyebrows raised. "…excuse me?"

"When I recognised nothing was more important than work." Sherlock explained. "Recognising pointless distractions for what they were and ignoring them."

"Pointless distractions like Christmas, parties and friends, you mean."

"Yes."

"And are you happy?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "Perfectly."

"Were you?" Mycroft pointed at the boy at the desk. His long hair partially obscured his face but it was easy to see the slight downturn to his mouth, the emptiness in his eyes. Sherlock hesitated.

"Of course." he said, sounding uncertain even to himself. Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock suddenly felt annoyed. "What? Don't judge me like you have any right to, just because you're too stupid and caught up in the make-believe world Mummy created for us once a year. I'm done here."

"Sherlock."

"Done!" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft glared at him.

"You're _not_ done."

"You want to treat me like a child? Fine." Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor, screwed his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears. "I can't hear you, Mycroft. La la la, can't hear you!"

When no response came, he opened his eyes. He was sat up in bed, the duvet flung off him. Sherlock breathed deeply. That had been…unsettling. He reached for the duvet and froze.

He was wearing his dressing gown.

"What the hell…?" he muttered. Had he been sleepwalking? Because that was all he needed. He hoped he hadn't left his bedroom, or John might have some serious blackmail material. Falling back against his pillow, he put his hands over his eyes and groaned quietly.

"What are you doing, Freak?"

Sherlock sat up like a shot. "_Sally_?"

Sally Donovan folded her arms. "What am I doing here?"

"I thought you were supposed to tell me. Let me guess, I've been shown my past, you're here to show me what's wrong with my life now?"

She sighed impatiently. "Sure. Whatever. Come on." she held out her hand, looking slightly disgusted. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock took it. They were instantly surrounded by a dazzling red light. When the light dissipated, they were standing in a quiet residential street in - if his geography was correct - Tooting.

"Who lives here?" he asked.

"See for yourself. That one." she pointed at a house with a green stained glass door. Sherlock walked inside, closely followed by Sally. He automatically headed for the stairs, but she laid a hand on his arm to stop him.

"In there." she said, gesturing to the front room. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at her, Sherlock obeyed. Inside, the room was dark despite it being well into the afternoon. A heavy curtain blocked the window. On the far side of the room was a large double bed, with a frail looking red-haired woman asleep on it. Sherlock regarded her curiously.

"I recognise her." he said eventually. "Have I met her?"

"Possibly. More likely you've seen her photo on his desk."

"Whose desk?"

The bedroom door swung silently open and Anderson walked in, carrying a cup of water. He pulled a chair over to the edge of the bed and sat beside it, watching the woman sleep. Her brow was creased as though she was in pain, but she still slept on.

"Who is she?" Sherlock asked, his eyes glued to the woman in the bed. Sally glanced at him.

"His wife. Alice."

"Is she…?"

"Dying? Possibly. Doctors can't say for sure. It's cancer."

The woman in the bed suddenly began a coughing fit, waking herself up. In a split second Anderson was on his feet, helping her to sit up and holding the cup of water to her lips which she sipped gratefully.

"Hey, love." he said gently. "Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas yourself." she replied, smiling weakly. "Are the kids up?"

"They've been up for hours, sweetheart. It's nearly lunchtime. They're absolutely dying to open their stockings."

"You haven't let them yet?" she swatted his arm affectionately. "Daniel!"

"What? I wanted us to do them as a family. Like we always do."

"Oh, Dan." she said softly. "Thank you."

Anderson took her hand, squeezing it gently. "I love you."

"Love you too."

The bedroom door burst open again and two small boys dashed in.

"Mummy!" the older of the two took a flying leap at the bed but Anderson caught him around the waist, laughing lightly.

"Hey now! Gently, please. Mummy's only just woken up."

"Sorry, daddy." he turned to his younger sibling. "George! Get the stockings!"

"Get your own. I don't want to."

"You have to listen to me, I'm oldest."

"No I don't, Christopher! Daddy, Christopher has to get his own stocking, doesn't he?"

"Now, boys, don't fight." Alice said, struggling to sit herself up straighter against the pillows. "Tell you what; Daddy will get the stockings and we'll stay here and have a cuddle, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Oi!" Anderson protested, smiling.

"Don't worry, darling." Alice teased. "You can have a cuddle later."

"He seems so…different." Sherlock murmured, as Anderson left the room. Sally snorted.

"Yeah, well. You've never seen him with her."

"He loves her. So why would he…?"

"Cheat on her with me?"

"Yes."

"He didn't. I come round sometimes when she's having chemo - look after the boys, make dinner, clean the bathroom…"

"Scrub the floors." Sherlock said, realisation dawning.

"Exactly."

"How can I not have noticed this?" he said, almost to himself.

"You have." Sally replied bitterly. "But you have this idea of Dan in your head and you ignore or twist anything you see that goes against it. You say the police are all stupid for ignoring the obvious in favour of their own theory, but what does that make you?"

At that moment, Anderson reappeared carrying two small, bulging woollen socks - obviously a pair of his own. He handed them over to the two excited boys and shared an indulgent look with his wife as they began pulling out small parcels in brightly wrapped paper. Sherlock's mind went back to his own childhood Christmas stocking, so large he hadn't even been able to carry it when it was empty.

"They can't afford much." Sally said quietly. Sherlock looked at her sharply. "The NHS wont fund Alice's latest treatment, so they've had to go private. That's why Dan's been doing so much extra work and overtime at the station." she glared at him. "Despite your best efforts."

"Well how was I supposed to know? No-one told me! I'm not a monster, I'd have let at least some of his idiocies slide if I'd known."

"No-one knows. No-one at the station, anyway. He tells them she travels a lot for work, or that she's got a cold, or that she's visiting her parents. I only know because I'm their best friend. Alice and I were at school together."

"They're treating her like she's normal." he nodded towards the bed. "The kids. They're obviously being careful, but…"

Sally immediately went on the defensive. "Of course they are, she's their mum. And she _is_ normal."

"They're lucky."

Sally gaped at him, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Sorry, what?"

"I was never given the chance."

Sally froze. "The chance to…?"

"When Mummy got sick," Sherlock began, "we were barely allowed near her. One hour a day, supervised, and even that got cancelled if the nurses thought she was too tired."

"How old were you?"

"Twelve. I used to sneak into her room sometimes, bring her books and makeup, that sort of thing. She used to cry." he took a deep breath in. "Whenever I got caught, I'd be scolded for upsetting her. By the nurses and my Father - God, the bruises he gave me sometimes. But it wasn't me that upset her, it was being locked away in her room. Mummy always loved to be outdoors, in the sunshine, with her children. I never even got to say goodbye before she died - she became so weak in her final days that they stopped letting me and Mycroft in to visit her." he blinked, surprised to find he'd started to tear up.

"I'm sorry." Sally said, quietly.

Sherlock looked away. He didn't want her pity. Alice let out a sudden shout of laughter, her youngest son joining in delightedly. Sherlock smiled in spite of himself.

"Like I said. They're lucky." he glanced at Sally. "If you don't mind, I'd like to see John."

"John? Why?"

Sherlock looked back at the family on the bed. Anderson leant in to kiss his wife on the cheek and she giggled. "Because it's Christmas."

He felt Sally take his hand, and the red light flooded the room. When it cleared, they were once again outside, in a different street this time.

"This is John's sister's flat." Sally told him.

"I know." Sherlock murmured, "I've been here before."

"Meeting the family?" She asked, "Or just another thing John doesn't know about you?"

Sherlock ignored her. He could hear music and raised, happy voices from inside. He took a stride towards the door when Sally's hand on his arm stopped him.

"He's not here yet." she said.

"Then why are _we_ here?"

"Because he's about to be." Sally pointed to the corner, and a second later John walked around it, trudging down the street towards them.

"He looks tired." Sherlock commented. Sally shot him an indecipherable look.

"He always does."

Sherlock frowned at her, turning his attention back to John. He climbed the steps and paused by the front door, fingering something in his pocket. Taking a deep breath, he pulled his phone out and looked at it for a few seconds before shaking his head and shoving it back. He pressed the bell and stood back, waiting. A few seconds later, the door opened and Harry appeared, beaming when she saw her younger brother stood on the doorstep.

"John! Hey, glad you could make it!" The two exchanged a slightly awkward hug.

"Glad you invited me." John said, with feeling. Harry looked over his shoulder.

"No Sherlock?"

John grimaced. "No, he didn't want to come. He's a bit bah-humbug about the whole Christmas thing."

"Oh. Well, fair enough. Come in then! There's plenty of food and drink - don't look at me like that, I haven't had anything stronger than a J2O - and if you want to crash here or whatever afterwards you're more than welcome!"

"Thanks, Harry." he sighed. "I might do that. Can't really be bothered with home at the moment."

Harry pulled a face, dragging him inside.

"God, you need a drink. No-one is allowed to be depressed at my parties!"

Chuckling, John shut the door behind them. Sherlock glanced at Sally, who nodded.

"Go on then. Follow them inside. I certainly didn't bring you here to hang about in the street."

"You know, for my guiding spirit you're very rude."

"Fuck off."

"I had to dream _you_ up." Sherlock sighed. Then, before she could respond to that, he swept through Harry's closed front door and into the party. Immediately, he was assaulted by a mass of colour and light and sounds. If he'd thought their own flat was heavily decorated it had nothing on Harry's place. She'd really gone all out - garish paper chains and lanterns hung from almost every available shelf and hook. There was a large tree (too big for the room, really) in the window decked out in masses of lights and baubles and chocolates wrapped in foil. But somehow it didn't look all that tacky - well, it did, but in a cheerful sort of way.

It wasn't a huge party by any means, there were maybe a dozen or so people milling around. Sherlock scanned the faces until he spotted John, stood over next to the TV talking to Harry. He marched over to stand next to him.

"…and it actually turned out to be the butler!" John finished. Harry snorted, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"He wasn't a butler." he said with a long-suffering sigh, instantly realising that John was telling Harry about their latest case. John had an infuriating habit of twisting the facts in order to tell a better story. "He was a caretaker." John, of course, didn't respond.

"Look, John, I'm gonna go talk to some other people." Harry said, looking around the room. "You good here?"

"Yeah. Go. Talk." he smiled. "No doubt Sherlock will text me at some point anyway demanding I come home to put the kettle on or something."

"Actually, you know what? Give me your phone."

"What? Why?"

"Because you need to enjoy yourself. It's Christmas fucking day, alright? Now hand it over."

"Don't turn it off."

"I won't."

"If I get any messages, look who they're from. I don't want to miss anything impor-"

"John!" Harry snatched his phone and shoved it into her cleavage. John made a face. "Unless you want to fish it out, go talk to people. Look, I'll just - hey! Hey, Maz!"

A pretty blonde woman looked round, then headed over to them. "Hey, Harry." she looked John up and down and smiled warmly. John returned the smile.

"Maz, this is my brother, John. John, this is my friend Maz."

"Mary." she said quickly, extending a perfectly manicured hand for John to shake. "Mary Morstan."

"I'll leave you two alone then!" Harry said, looking altogether much too pleased with herself.

"Wow, she's hot." came a voice from behind him. Sherlock jumped, then turned to scowl at Sally. Taking her arm, he dragged her away from John and Mary.

"She's not ugly, I grant you. But her left eye is wonky and her roots are showing. Those shoes are falling apart, and she's got a ladder in her tights-"

"Not that you're looking for tiny flaws because you're jealous or anything."

"Shut up." he looked across at John. "I've got nothing to be jealous of."

"Are you sure about that?"

Before Sherlock could respond, he heard John saying his name. His head whipped round and he strode back over to John and Mary.

"…yeah, Harry mentioned you had a flatmate." Mary smiled, fiddling with her hair. "What's he like?"

"Mad. Absolutely mad." he paused. "But not always in a good way. Honestly, there have been times I've actually started looking for other flat shares." Sherlock blinked, stunned. He felt like he'd been slapped. Since when had John ever been that angry with him?

"It's horrible then?" Mary asked, her mouth twisted in faux-sympathy. John shrugged.

"Not really. Sometimes. I'd never leave him in the lurch or anything, he's a decent…actually, no, he's not decent. He's selfish, arrogant, he can be cruel…he's my friend, but sometimes I _really_ hate him, you know?"

"Oh, yeah."

"I don't want to go on about him. But let's just say it's not hard to see why no-one else likes him."

Mary laughed lightly. "You know…" she said breathlessly, smiling coyly and fluttering her eyelashes. "If you don't want to go back to your flat, you don't have to crash here. I'm sure I can provide you with something more…_comfortable_…than Harry's spare sofa…in fact, we could leave the party early…"

John smiled, leaning a bit further into her personal space. "I'd like that."

"You ok, Freak?" Sally asked. Sherlock turned away from the happy couple.

"Show me something else. I'm done here."

Sally's expression clouded. "Are you…?"

"I'm fine. Everything's fine. I just don't need to watch John humiliate himself yet again with another dull air headed girl."

"Sherlock…" Sally said, sounding embarrassed.

Sherlock closed his eyes, pained. "I'd like to go somewhere else now. Anywhere. Please."

Sally didn't reply for a long time. When Sherlock finally opened his eyes again, he was stood next to his bed, his room still bathed in darkness.

Shaking slightly, he slipped beneath the duvet again and fisted his hands into his eyes, trying to scrub away the images now coursing through his brain. He wanted to go upstairs, just to check John was still there, reassure himself that whatever he had or hadn't done in the past, right at this second he had no plans to move out.

Sherlock blinked up at the bedroom ceiling, his mind in turmoil. He felt exhausted. Logically he knew he'd been asleep the whole night, but it didn't feel like it. He felt like he'd been dragged around time and space for a couple of hours. Sherlock looked at his bedside clock just in time to see it tick over to 3:00 am. He shut his eyes.

"I get it." he whispered. "I get it, I've learnt my lesson, so leave me alone."

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart gave a funny little jolt and he opened his eyes automatically. "Victor?"

Victor smiled sheepishly. "Long time no see."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not you." he begged. "Please not you. Anyone but you, I just can't…" he tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and closed his eyes. "Leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do that."

"Why not? You managed it fine before." he snapped bitterly. The silence that followed stretched on for so long that Sherlock thought maybe Victor had listened to him. He opened his eyes, to see his old friend just stood watching him, sadly.

"I never wanted to hurt you." Victor said, softly. "My father-"

"Your father gave you a better offer. You picked the money over me, that's all there is to it." he swallowed. "I'm tired. I'm tired, and I'm confused, and I don't have the strength to see you right now."

"Neither of us have a choice."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "Fine. Let's get this over with." he held out his hand. Victor looked momentarily startled, then reached out and took it. There was no light this time; instead the room seemed to fill with a thick fog, grey and threatening. Sherlock was relieved when it cleared and he could shake off Victor's grip. He looked around.

"Where are we?"

"Highgate Cemetery." Victor told him.

"Why?"

Victor merely raised an arm and pointed. Sherlock followed the direction of his finger and saw Mycroft, stood half in shadow. He looked…awful. He was a lot thinner, and his hair had greyed and thinned even further. He looked pale and old. Sherlock looked across at Victor.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Why don't you have a guess?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He frowned as he saw a figure approaching, the expression deepening when he recognised who it was. John - seemingly on his own. Why was John meeting Mycroft alone?

"Mycroft." John said quietly.

Mycroft looked up. "John. Hello." he held out his hand and John shook it. "Thank you for coming."

John shrugged. "Yeah. Well."

"How are Mary and the girls?"

"Fine." John said, a little too quickly. Mycroft nodded.

"I apologise for interrupting your festivities, but…well, today felt appropriate."

John snorted. "Only you would think Christmas day was appropriate for this." Suddenly his face fell and he shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"Not only me. Sherlock, too." Mycroft said softly, voicing John's unspoken thought. John nodded, then looked around.

"Is Lestrade coming?"

Mycroft hesitated. "No. But he sent _flowers_." he sneered.

John sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock always did manage to drive everyone away. I can't really blame him. Lestrade, that is." he sighed. "He hasn't worked with Sherlock in so long. He can hardly be expected to give up his Christmas day to…to…" he cleared his throat. "I didn't really expect you to, either."

"You sounded like you needed me here. And besides, he was my friend once."

Sherlock looked across at Victor. "Where are we?" he demanded quietly, his mouth suddenly dry. Victor raised his eyebrows at him.

"I think you already know that."

"No." Sherlock looked back at the two men huddled at the entrance to the graveyard. "No. What is this?"

He sighed. "Your funeral. As you've already guessed."

"No. It can't be. I wouldn't…John wouldn't…"

"You pushed him away, like you do everyone. Like you did to Mycroft, to Lestrade…like you did me."

"I didn't push you, you jumped away from me."

"Is that really what you think?"

Sherlock watched the two men walk through the gates. "John." he gasped out. He turned to Victor, desperately. "Tell me I can change this. Tell me this isn't set in stone." Victor merely watched him. Sherlock gripped the front of his shirt. "Have pity on me for once, please! Tell me it doesn't have to end this way! Victor, _please_!" he buried his face in Victor's shirt. "Please!"

He suddenly felt himself falling and jolted upright in alarm. Instead of Victor's shirt he was clutching his duvet to his face. Sunlight was streaming in through a gap in his curtains. In a flash, Sherlock was up and out of his room. He hurtled into the kitchen so quickly he almost collided with John who was carrying a plate of toast and tea to the table.

"Watch it!" John cried out in alarm.

"What day is it?"

"Oh, sorry I almost made you spill your breakfast, John. Sorry I crashed into you, John."

"Yes fine, _fine_, what day is it?"

"It's Christmas day you psycho. Now if you don't mind I'm trying to eat my breakfast. Kettle's just boiled if you want tea."

"Christmas day! Of course it is!" Sherlock made himself a cup and sat at the table, across from John, who was reading a newspaper. He couldn't stop himself from grinning. The world just seemed so much _brighter _now. He'd seen his future and there was no way in Hell he was going to let that happen.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you come to my funeral?"

John didn't look up from his paper. "Only if it's not on Thursday. I can't do Thursdays."

"I'm serious. I need you to promise me that you'll want to come."

John looked up, confused. "Why?"

"Promise me."

Concern filled John's face. "What's wrong? Has something happened? Are you…?"

"No! God, no, I'm fine."

"Then what?" John asked. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably.

"I had a dream."

"About your funeral?"

"Yes."

John blinked at him. "And…I didn't come, I take it."

"No, you came."

"Then I don't understand."

"You were only there as…as a favour to Mycroft. Because you didn't want him to be there alone."

A look of understanding passed over John's expression. "I see."

"No. You don't." he looked up at him. "Promise you won't abandon me."

"Never." John swallowed. "I never could."

"Even if it feels like I'm pushing you away. Because I never want to push you away, not you. Promise you won't let me."

"I promise."

"And you'll come to my funeral? Because you want to, not because you have to?"

"Of course. Like I said, as long as it's not a Thursday."

Sherlock laughed, recognising John's need to inject humour to diffuse the tension of the moment. John smiled affectionately, but he still looked worried.

"Do you want me to stay here today? Harry wont mind."

"No."

"Oh. Ok then."

Sherlock suddenly shot out of his chair. "Hold that thought. Don't go anywhere!" He darted from the room before John could respond, grabbing his mobile and quickly dialling Mycroft's number. It was answered almost instantly.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Do you still own the Sussex house?"

There was a long pause. "…the house we stayed in for Christmas as children?"

"Yes."

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"I need to borrow it."

"For…?"

"None of your-" he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm coming round now to get the keys."

"Right now? It's Christmas morning, Sherlock, I have plans."

"Then you have thirty minutes to change them before I get there." he hesitated. "Or you could meet me at the house? I was thinking of having a Christmas get together. With…people."

There was an even longer silence this time. "At the house. For Christmas."

"Yes, well…feel free to say no."

"No, I…yes. Alright. I'll meet you there. I'll have it decorated for our arrival."

"Thank you. And I need you to send cars to pick up Ms. Watson and her friends. Oh, and Lestrade."

"Sherlock, what…oh, fine. Of course. Anything else?"

"Excellent. Oh, but before you go, there's one more thing I need you to do for me…there's a man works for Scotland Yard named Daniel Anderson. His wife…"

When he emerged from his bedroom five minutes later, John was still sat at the kitchen table.

"Well?"

"Call Harry. Tell her you won't be coming. And tell her Mycroft's sending cars round to her flat to pick her and her guests up."

"Mycroft's sending cars? Why?"

"We're having our own party."

"What…here?"

"Don't be an idiot. My family's house in Sussex. Get dressed, we leave in an hour." he paused. "Invite Lestrade, too."

"Why…?"

But Sherlock had already gone, hurrying into his own room to get dressed. He smiled to himself, wondering absently if the caretakers would have enough time to get everything ready. Knowing Mycroft, food and a tree would already be on their way there.

"Don't take this the wrong way." John said hesitantly and hour later. They were in one of Mycroft's luxurious black cars, on their way to the house. "But have you…taken anything? Only you're acting really weird."

"No. No, I haven't taken anything. I've just realised what's important in life, and it's not just the work.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you're freaking me out. What the hell did you dream about?"

Sherlock smiled, taking John's hand. John tensed for a second, then relaxed. "It really doesn't matter."

When they got to the house, Mycroft was already there making sure everything looked perfect. Lestrade stood awkwardly off to one side, watching one of Mycroft's anonymous workmen hang lights around the doorway.

"Lestrade. You're here quickly."

Lestrade blushed. "Yeah, well I didn't have anything else on. I was at the Yard when John called, just came straight here."

"Oh." Sherlock paused. "Er…happy Christmas."

Lestrade blinked, surprised. "Thank you?"

Sherlock hesitated, then threw his arms around Lestrade in a brief hug, releasing him before he had time to reciprocate.

"Yes. Good. Happy Christmas." he turned and walked over to Mycroft. As he left, he could hear Lestrade asking John if he'd taken anything. He chuckled.

A couple of hours later and the party was in full swing. Everyone seemed a little wary of him at first, but now even Harry was beginning to thaw. He went over to help himself to more wine from the buffet and found himself face to face with Mycroft.

"Having fun?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes. I'm…glad you could come."

"Yes." Mycroft eyed him askance. "You haven't…I mean, you are still…?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "Why does everyone keep asking me if I'm on something? I'm clean! Can I not just do something nice for no reason?"

"Sorry, it's…sorry." Mycroft continued to stare at him.

"What?" he snapped. Mycroft shook his head.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just funny this should be happening now, in this place. I had the strangest dream about you last night…"

Sherlock's stomach lurched. Could it be…? No. Ridiculous. "No-one wants to hear your dreams, Mycroft. Have another drink." he hurriedly handed Mycroft a glass of wine with a smile and ushered him off in the direction of one of Harry's friends.

"What was that about?" John asked curiously. Sherlock shook his head. He looked over John's shoulder to see Mary Morstan deep in conversation with one of Mycroft's staff, completely oblivious to everyone else. He refocused on John's face. John, who was smiling up at him like he was fantastic, looking bewildered but happy. Sherlock smiled.

"Nothing. I'll tell you later." Sherlock laid a hand gently on John's arm. "Merry Christmas, John."

John grinned. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."


End file.
